"Johnson about the age of twenty, drew up a description of his infirmities for Dr. Swinfen, and received an answer to his letter, importing that the symptoms indicated a future privation of reason, who can doubt that an apprehension of the worst calamity that can befall humanity hung over his life, like the sword of the tyrant suspended over his head ?" No one, indeed, can wonder that this terrible prognostic of insanity should cast its shadows before all his future hopes of worldly happiness: the only wonder is, that a physician could be found so ignorant of the moral duties of his calling, or so reckless of the feelings of a melancholy man, as to implant the very notion in his mind which it was his business to endeavour to eradicate if already fixed there; namely, that madness was to be the termination of his disease. Was this doctor simple enough to imagine, that there is any thing in genius which renders the intellect better able to support prospective evil, or the undisguised prognosis of a fearful malady, than the humble faculties of an ordinary mind? Simple indeed he would be to think so, and little acquainted with human nature.

But the error, we well know, is daily committed by the inexperienced, of supposing that literary men are possessed of strength of mind that may enable them to rise superior to the fears and apprehensions of the common invalid, and, consequently, that all reserve is to be laid aside, and the real condition of such patients freely and fearlessly exhibited to their view. This is a great mistake the most powerful talents are generally united with the acutest sensibility, and in dealing with such cases the considerate physician has to encourage, and not to depress, the invalid: to temper candour with delicacy; and firmness above all things, with gentleness of

manner, and even kindness of heart. If it be essential in one disease more than another for the physician to command the confidence of his patient, to engage his respect, and to convince him of the personal interest that is taken in his health and well-being-that disease is morbid melancholy.

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Johnson was wont to tell his friends, that he inherited a vile melancholy" from his father, which made him "mad all his life—or, at least, not sober." Insanity was the constant terror of his life; the opinion of Dr. Swinfen haunted him like a spirit of evil wherever he went; and at the very period, as Boswell observes, when he was giving the world proofs of no ordinary vigour of understanding, he actually fancied himself insane, or in a state as nearly as possible approaching to it.

Johnson's malady and Cowper's were precisely similar in the early period of each, as we have before remarked; the only difference was in the strength of mind of either sufferer. Cowper at once surrendered himself up to the tyranny of his disorder, and took a pleasure in parading the chains of his melancholy before the eyes of his correspondents, even when "immuring himself at home in the infected atmosphere of his own enthusiasm ;” while Johnson struggled with his disease, sometimes indeed in a spirit of ferocious independence, and very seldom complained to his most intimate friends of his "humiliating malady." In no point was the vigour of his intellect shown in so strong a light as in this particular; for in no malady is there so great a disposition to complain of the sufferings that are endured, and to over-state their intensity, lest, by any possibility, they should be underrated by others.

CHAPTER XVIII.

JOHNSON CONTINUED.

Johnson's disorder (if we may be allowed the expression) had three phases, the character of each of which distinguished a particular period of his career, or rather predominated at a particular period, for it cannot be said that the hues of each were not occasionally blended. At twenty, however, his despondency was of a religious kind: about forty-five "his melancholy was at its meridian," and then had the shape of a fierce irritability, venting itself in irascibility of temper, and fits of capricious arrogance.

At the full period of "three-score years and ten," the leading symptom of his hypochondria was "the apprehension of death, and every day appeared to aggravate his terrors of the grave." This was "the black dog" that worried him to the last moment. Metastasio, we are told, never permitted the word death to be pronounced in his presence; and Johnson was so agitated by hav ing the subject spoken of in his hearing, that on one oc casion he insulted Boswell for introducing the topic, and in the words of the latter, he had put "his head into the lion's mouth a great many times with comparative safety, but at last had it bitten off."

"For many years before his death," says Arthur Murphy, "so terrible was the prospect of death, that when he was not disposed to enter into the conversation that

was going forward, whoever sat near his chair might hear him repeating those lines of Shakspeare

"To die and go we know not where."

He acknowledged to Boswell he never had a moment in which death was not terrible to him; and even at the age of sixty-nine he says he had made no approaches to a state in which he could look upon death without ter

ror.

At seventy-five, we find him writing to his friends to consult all the eminent physicians of their acquaintance on his case. To his kind and excellent physician, Dr. Brocklesby, he writes, "I am loth to think that I grow worse, but cannot prove to my own partiality that I grow much better. Pray be so kind as to have me in your thoughts, and mention my case to others as you have opportunity." Boswell, at the same time, in Scotland, was employed in consulting the most eminent physicians of that country for him. In his last illness, when a friend of his told him he was glad to see him looking better, Johnson seized him by the hand, and exclaimed, "You are one of the kindest friends I ever had." curious to observe with what sophistry he sometimes endeavoured to persuade himself and others of the salutary nature of his excessive terrors on this head: he tells one friend that it is only the best men who tremble at the thoughts of futurity, because they are the most aware of the purity of that place which they hope to reach. To another, he writes that he never thought confidence with respect to futurity, any part of the character of a brave, a wise, or a good man. His executor, Sir John Hawkins, who lets no opportunity pass to blacken his character,

It is

speaks of his fear of death in terms which imply some crime of extraordinary magnitude weighing on his heart; it was with difficulty, he says, he could persuade him to execute a will, apparently as if he feared his doing so would hasten his dissolution. Three or four days before his death, he declared he would give one of his legs for a year more of life. When the Rev. Mr. Sastres called upon him, Johnson stretched forth his hand, and exclaimed in a melancholy tone, "Jam moriturus!" But the ruling passion of his disease was still strong in death; for at his own suggestion, when his surgeon was making slight incisions in his leg with the idea of relieving his dropsical disorder, Johnson cried out, " Deeper, deeper; I want length of life, and you are afraid of giving me pain, which I do not value."

“On the very last day of his existence," says Murphy, "the desire of life returned with all its former vehemence; he still imagined that by puncturing his legs relief might be obtained. At eight in the morning he tried the experiment, but no water followed," If Johnson's fear of death were not the effect of disease, it would be impossible to contemplate his conduct either in sickness or in sorrow, in his closet or in his death-bed, without feelings of absolute disgust. What other sentiment could be entertained

"For him who crawls enamoured of decay,

Clings to his couch, and sickens years away,"

and shudders at the breath of every word which reminds him of the grave? The bravest man that ever lived may not encounter death without fear, nor the best Christian envisage eternity with unconcern; but there is a dif